


Hell in a Handbasket

by thefrogg



Series: Salt!verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam figures something else out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell in a Handbasket

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted at my livejournal.

"Sam?"

Dean's voice is swallowed by the grey-white emptiness.

Pivoting, Dean looks around, seeing nothing save the mountains floating off in the distance: no Impala, no food, no water or bedrolls or weapons.

No Sam.

"Sammy!"

Loose pebbles hurl themselves against his boots, tracing random patterns in the crust.

"Sammy?" Dean can't help but sound plaintive, desperate. Lost, he scans the horizon, gauging the distance, and picks a direction.

There's nothing holding him here. He has to find Sam.

~~~

 

Time is ticked off in the crunch of salt crystals beneath his feet, in the too-slow approach of hulking mountains.

The holy water burns in its flask, calling, making Dean wonder if it would be better off in his stomach; his shirt is soaked with sweat, drops painting a faint trail behind him. The sun scorches the sky overhead, white and merciless.

Every few minutes, he reaches back, fingers brushing the .45 tucked in the waistband of his jeans.

Bullets only make demons mad.

~~~

 

The Hellhounds are first, deep growls and baying carrying across the flat. They've cornered someone; Dean can recognize that much.

"Sammy?" Trying for stealth is useless here, there's no cover. None.

"Dean!"

"Hang on, Sammy!" Dean bursts into a sprint, salt speeding past in a blur. 

"Dean, don--mmgrph," and it's too late, Dean can see him now, see them now, a round dozen hunchbacked hounds and a handful of demons, the stench of sulphur drifting on the wind.

Sam, bound hand and foot and gagged at the feet of a crossroads demon.

"Sammy?" Dean stops a few yards of the edge, salt still protecting him. The gun won't be enough; neither will the holy water.

Sammy shakes his head, eyes wet and frantic.

"Let him go."

The crossroads demon smiles, seductive and ugly. "Now, now, Dean, you know the rules--"

"Dean!"

But Sam can't talk--

The sun winks out, salt-white glare vanishing in the dark.

~~~

 

"Sammy--" The name is choked and rough, stark with terror.

"It's okay, just a dream. I'm here." 

Hands grip Dean's shoulders firmly, keep him from propelling himself off the bed. It's not enough, not enough contact, and Dean turns, trembling fingers finding cotton, hot and damp. They claw, scrabble at the cloth separating them, hampered by Sam's chest pressing in, pressing down. "Sammy, they, they had--" and he has to stop, gulp for air, head jerking back with each shallow breath.

"Shhhh, it's okay, I promise." Sam presses close, then closer, mouth pressed to Dean's shoulder, strong hands sliding down Dean's arms, tangling their fingers together. "Hold on, just gimme a second," he whispers, and Dean whimpers as his hands are freed, frozen, for the scant seconds it takes Sam to peel both their t-shirts off.

Dean plasters himself against his brother before his shirt hits the floor, hunching his shoulders until he can press stubble-raspy cheek to Sam's chest, can feel Sam's heart beat. The steady thumping drags at Dean, forcing his own heart to slow, calms the panic enough to leave Dean shaking and sweatsoaked in Sam's arms.

Muted grey outlines the window, heavy curtains nearly blocking the lights in the parking lot. Sam can't see, but then he doesn't need to, his hands tracing the muscles in Dean's back by rote, calluses snagging old scars and newer, mapping out his brother's life in pain and healing. Running his thumbs along the knobs of Dean's spine makes him shiver, as Sam knew it would; curling his nails in the inner curve of Dean's shoulderblades makes his breath catch, makes him mumble Sam's name and push closer, rooting as if a babe at his mother's breast.

"Can't..." Dean whispers, chapped lips stinging. He licks them, tasting salt and skin. "Can't lose you."

"I'm here, not leaving you," Sam answers, words muffled in soft, spiky hair, and then he gets it. Gets the hows and whys, the sheer enormity of the love Dean carries for him, that wouldn't let Dean leave him dead. That made him do anything to get Sam back.

The same love Sam carries for Dean, and wouldn't let Dean pay the price he'd been so ready - so terrified - to pay. The price Ruby, and if he could bring himself to admit it, the Trickster, and other creatures after him, had been unwilling to let Dean pay, if only to protect themselves.

That same instant Sam understands that they cannot continue hunting like this.

Dean is still trembling, still panting into Sam's chest, when Sam forces his head up, forces eye contact in the gloom. "Sammy," he starts, swallows, starts again. "You have to know--"

"I do, I do. I know, shhhh." Sam's hand tightens in Dean's hair, stopping just short of pain. "Promise me something."

A flash of white shows half-smile, half-grimace. "Anything," Dean chokes out.

"Let's go stay with Bobby for a while, get our bearings." Sam doesn't have to wonder if he made the wrong decision, if it was a bad idea.

Dean goes boneless, almost sliding out of Sam's arms until he's caught and dragged back upright. Unable to respond verbally, Dean seals it the only way he can.

The tears are salty, bitter on Sam's lips as Dean kisses him, soft and chaste.


End file.
